My depression hasn't left. I haven't dealt with the unmet needs and feelings buried beneath. I thought going back to school would fix it. I thought finding my purpose would heal me. I thought paying my way through school would validate me. I have not healed this. How have I still not healed this?
Depression has crept up on me again, like that unwelcomed guest in a shambled house. I'm nine months in to my massage therapy program and my body and spirit are spent. I am tired, weary down to the brittle bone. My tiredness in spirit has been ignored for far too long. Though my body has longed for rest, I have not stopped moving. Me, always moving, forward and backward but never still.
I have felt the fires of anger in my soul burn up to the surface. Anger for unmet needs of mine and forced responsibility. My heart feels like a stranger to joy. Its cries of pain show me again that I am in pain. I am in pain when I don't give myself time or space. To be in survival mode for extended periods of time has depleted me of my resources.
My anger feels unsure of where to land in my neuroses. So, it deepens and depresses itself into my body. I smoke, I eat, I distract. "Anywhere, but here," I scream into each cell of my body. My cells respond in lack of safety and certainty. My body is not my home. I have not felt at home in my body for years.
Growing up, emotions were scary creatures. Today, I find myself still running in circles away but never far enough to escape them. I wish my emotions weren't like the tsunami waves in the ocean. I numb and distract until reality is on my front door step again with its dose of darkness and shame.
So, I smoke. Today, I smoke because anxiety is more friend of mine than sadness and grief. The sadness feels too unbearable to speak of, let alone feel most days.
I am sad, torn apart by the pain I've endured. The pain of breaking my own heart over and over, neglecting myself over and over. I have not held this pain in my arms, cradling it like a wounded child. I have scolded, reprimanded and coerced this hurt child into a body I can't even call my home. She is in the darkest corner of my heart, waiting to be held. I see her now. She is my depression. She is my anger. She is my sadness.
"I am so sorry. I am so sorry I keep doing this. I don't know how to love you. I don't know how to care for you with love and adoration."
No, my depression has not left. I am still here dealing with it and finding my way up to the surface again. I am breaching it. I can feel it. I am breathing.
Depression has crept up on me again, like that unwelcomed guest in a shambled house. I'm nine months in to my massage therapy program and my body and spirit are spent. I am tired, weary down to the brittle bone. My tiredness in spirit has been ignored for far too long. Though my body has longed for rest, I have not stopped moving. Me, always moving, forward and backward but never still.
I have felt the fires of anger in my soul burn up to the surface. Anger for unmet needs of mine and forced responsibility. My heart feels like a stranger to joy. Its cries of pain show me again that I am in pain. I am in pain when I don't give myself time or space. To be in survival mode for extended periods of time has depleted me of my resources.
My anger feels unsure of where to land in my neuroses. So, it deepens and depresses itself into my body. I smoke, I eat, I distract. "Anywhere, but here," I scream into each cell of my body. My cells respond in lack of safety and certainty. My body is not my home. I have not felt at home in my body for years.
Growing up, emotions were scary creatures. Today, I find myself still running in circles away but never far enough to escape them. I wish my emotions weren't like the tsunami waves in the ocean. I numb and distract until reality is on my front door step again with its dose of darkness and shame.
So, I smoke. Today, I smoke because anxiety is more friend of mine than sadness and grief. The sadness feels too unbearable to speak of, let alone feel most days.
I am sad, torn apart by the pain I've endured. The pain of breaking my own heart over and over, neglecting myself over and over. I have not held this pain in my arms, cradling it like a wounded child. I have scolded, reprimanded and coerced this hurt child into a body I can't even call my home. She is in the darkest corner of my heart, waiting to be held. I see her now. She is my depression. She is my anger. She is my sadness.
"I am so sorry. I am so sorry I keep doing this. I don't know how to love you. I don't know how to care for you with love and adoration."
No, my depression has not left. I am still here dealing with it and finding my way up to the surface again. I am breaching it. I can feel it. I am breathing.
